


Patience

by GiGiS89



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Animal Death, Boys Kissing, Dean Has Powers, Gen, Pre-Series, Sam Has Powers, Sam Winchester Big Bang 2016, Underage Kissing, dark!boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 06:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9981422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiGiS89/pseuds/GiGiS89
Summary: Summary: Sam will never understand. What are their abilities good for, if not for helping them get what they want. There’s nothing more Sam wants than to be free. He wants his freedom and his brother and the first step to getting both for good is being free of John. Sam shakes his head. His forehead sweaty against Dean’s back. He pulls Dean in closer, until there is no space between them. He and John can’t co-exist. As long as John is around Sam can’t be who wants, can’t take what he wants and god knows, Sam wants.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: First time entry for the sammybigbang on LJ. I had the great fortune to work with Nisaki (on AO3) who created some incredible pieces for this story. It was a pleasure working with her. You can view the art here: http://swan-song21.livejournal.com/617.html. Please pop over and give her some love.

 

The cat is lots of colors, like chocolate and caramel and vanilla all mixed up. Sam likes that it has green eyes just like Dean. He’s tried to pet to it before but it always runs away. Well, except for the times it hisses at him.  Its back goes up and all of its hair stands up, it tries to scratch him whenever Sam comes too close. It hurts Sam’s feelings, but he doesn’t let it bother him too much. He just needs to be patient.

 

He tells the girl who sits beside him in class, Marissa, about the cat. She has a cat at home, she tells him her cat loves tuna; says that maybe Sam’s cat likes tuna too. She promises she’ll bring him some for his cat.

 

Sam waits until after school, until most of the kids are gone. He goes past the playground to where the cat often is. He finds it, sitting by the back wall of the cafeteria.  Sam knows better than to rush, he has to go slow or it will run away again.

 

He has a piece of Marissa’s tuna sandwich in his backpack this time, he’s gone through a lot of trouble so hopefully, the cat will like it.  He really wants to be its friend. He sets the pieces out and waits. 

 

The cat must be really hungry; it runs right over. Sam is so excited he grabs at the cat as soon as it’s in reach. The cat wails. It’s batting at Sam with its paws. When one of its claws catches his wrist, Sam restrains the cat by squeezing it hard against his chest. He doesn’t understand why it wants to run away, to hurt him. The cat screeches. Sam squeezes harder.

 

Sam’s getting annoyed now. He just wants to play. The cat won’t stop squirming. The cat is big; it’s hard to hold. It twists and coils in his arms, eventually freeing itself enough to bite Sam’s hand. Sam screams in surprise, letting the cat go. It drops to the ground and begins to run away.

“No!” Sam’s hand reaches out. The cat is paralyzed.

Sam’s hand is bleeding and it stings, tears well up in Sam's eyes. All he wanted was to pet it. The cat hisses and cries, it looks like those scared cats in the cartoons he watches with Dean. Its eyes wide with fear. That makes Sam mad. All he's tried to do is take care of the cat; he just wanted to be its friend. He thinks about his brother; Dean had warned him to never expect anything from anyone. The cat mewls miserably.

Sam flicks his wrist and slams the cat against the wall. “Shut up, you stupid cat!”

 

Its fur is soft, just like he thought it would be. He doesn’t touch its face. One of the eyes doesn’t sit right in its socket and its mouth is full of red foam. He’s careful not to get dirty. Dean doesn’t like it when Sam gets too dirty.

 

When Dean finds him, Sam can tell right away he’s angry. He was supposed to meet Dean after school. Dean worries when he’s not where he’s supposed to be.

 “Sammy!” Dean yells as he jogs over.

 Sam stands up fast, dumping the cat out of his lap and onto the ground. He doesn’t like for Dean to be upset with him. It makes him scared, he hates being scared; he starts to cry.

 As soon as Dean sees the cat, Dean’s angry face goes soft. “What happened, Sammy?”

 “I didn’t mean to, Dean.” He offers. He really didn’t mean to be late. He didn’t think he would be so long.  Again, resentment bubbles inside him, this is all the stupid cat’s fault. Sam gives the cat a shove with the tip of his shoe.

 

Dean looks from Sam to the cat, and his eyebrow quirks in confusion. Sam wipes the tears away with the back of his sleeve. He panics a little, wondering if Dean might be angry about the cat too.

“I was just trying to pet it...and, and it bit me!” He blurts out, before Dean can say anything.

Dean doesn’t look like he believes him. That makes Sam nervous.

Dean takes Sam by the shoulders; Sam goes stiff all over. He knows what Dean’s going to do, and he doesn’t like it. It feels funny, makes his tummy flip, sometimes, he feels sick after.

Dean looks right into him and sees everything.

 Dean shakes his head. "Shouldn’t lie to me, Sammy."

 He squirms in Dean’s grasp. "I hate when you do that!"

 "Sam..."

 “It hurt me!” He protests. His body thrums with coiled energy. He wants to smash the cat to pieces all over again for making Dean disappointed in him.

 “I know.” Dean pulls Sam into a tight hug.

 Sam sinks into Dean’s arms, exhausted and confused. “You’re not...mad?”

“Course not. You’re just little kid.”

Sam pulls back, face scrunched into an indignant pout. “Not little. I’m six years old.”

Dean laughs. He wipes the hair out of Sam’s eyes. “Any of the other kids see you?”

 Sam shakes his head, “Not stupid, Dean.”

 “Course not, Sammy."

 

Dean still looks a little worried. Sam doesn’t want Dean to worry. He was careful. He’s not sure what do to make Dean feel better. Sam suddenly remembers the moms he sometimes sees at the park near the school. He gives Dean a quick little kiss on the lips, just like he’s seen the moms give their kids when they get boo-boos.

Dean seems a little surprised. Sam doesn’t know why. Dean hugs and holds him all the time. He's always giving Sam kisses on the forehead or on the cheek. Sam wonders, for a second, if kisses like that are only for mommies and daddies to give. He doesn’t think so though.

Sam knows it’s all okay, when Dean smiles real big, like Sam is the best thing in the whole wide world. It fills Sam up inside.  Dean gives him a quick kiss right back then takes Sam’s hand and begins to pull him away.

Sam hesitates. He looks back at the broken animal. He doesn’t want to have to touch it again, but he doesn’t think they should just leave it where anyone can find it.

“What about the cat, De?”

Dean looks past him, scrunches his face in disgust, but only for a second before his expression turns to annoyance. “Serves the damn thing right.”

Sam is confused, but doesn’t say so.

Dean gives Sam’s hand a gentle squeeze. "Now, come on. We're already late."

 

~~~

They’ve been trapped in the car for hours. Dean is riding up front, the way he always does, now that he’s turned thirteen. Sam hates how he's, perpetually, stuck in the back. Even if all they do is argue most of the time, not sharing the back with Dean feels wrong. Sam is exhausted and still seething from having to abandon his third school this year.  All he wants is the comfort of his brother, what’s so hard to understand about that?

 

They’re on their way to Uncle Bobby’s, where John is planning to dump them for who knows how long. John doesn’t sell it that way, of course.  He’s rambling on about a lead on “The Demon” and how “they’re so close” and how “we’ll get it this time” and how Uncle Bobby’s is the safest place for them right now.  Like any of that justifies the fact he’s shoving them off on someone else, because dealing with them is too difficult or whatever. Like saying it’s about their safety negates what a crappy father he is. If Sam wasn’t so afraid of being separated from Dean, he would call CPS himself.

 

John prattles on. Dean is hanging on every word.  It frustrates him; Sam just doesn’t get why any of it matters. To Sam, Mary is just a blonde lady in a photograph, the same way John is just an obsessed jerk he calls Dad. Sam doesn't care about "the mission" and a part of him doubts The Demon even exists.  Maybe it was an angry spirit, or a shape shifter, or a robber. Maybe John got drunk and set the house on fire with Mary in it. Who knows?  It’s a mystery. Which is stupid because Dean could just dig out the truth, but he won’t.

_Never on Dad, Sammy._

And he gets it. He does. John’s narrow world view could never understand their gifts. Sam doesn’t have any doubt John, if he ever found out, would consider them no better than the things they hunt. Sam is certain Dean feels the same way. (Why would he have made keeping their talents hidden their number one rule if he didn't?) Which is why Sam just doesn’t understand why Dean can’t see John the way he does. (God knows Sam’s tried to explain.) But Dean can’t. Dean’s perception is twisted by the little he remembers from before. Dean makes it sound so nice that sometimes Sam wishes he could remember too. Mostly because of Dean, because it matters so much to him.

When the conversation finally dies down; Sam can’t be more grateful.  

 

The longer they drive the more oppressive the isolation of the backseat gets. It makes him anxious. Soon he can feel the energy building, desperate for escape, a destructive itch he can never quite satisfy. Sam wants to drag Dean into the back with him. He always knows how to ease Sam off the edge. He's the only thing that makes Sam feel safe, in control.

Sam gives a disgruntled huff, pushing his anxiety at Dean.

Dean catches his eye in the rearview. “I know, Sammy.” Dean tells him. "Soon, okay."

Dad turns towards Dean, then shoots Sam a suspicious look over his shoulder.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, Dad.” Sam forces a smile and pretends to go back to sleep.

 

When they finally stop to eat, Sam is over the front seat and leaping onto Dean’s back before John is even all the way out of the car. He needs Dean; needs his hands on his brother. He holds onto Dean tightly; a monkey on his back.

“Not your personal jungle gym, Sam.” Dean chuckles, as he pats Sam’s arm.

Sam kisses Dean on the cheek then offers his own cheek and gets a kiss in return. The angel is awkward and Dean’s kiss lands more on the corner of his mouth than his cheek. Sam smiles. Dean never gives Sam kitty kisses in front of John. He rests his head against Dean’s, dutifully ignoring the flutter in his stomach. He doesn’t think it means anything. It’s a familiar feeling after all. These days, it happens nearly every time he touches Dean. Sometimes, the flutter feels like a banked fire, nestled low and hot in his belly. It’s strange, but comforting too.

John clears his throat; Sam doesn’t miss the disapproving look they get from their father.

"You two are getting too old for all that."

 

No one knows how to take something good and wreck it faster than John Winchester.

 

For a moment, Sam allows himself to indulge in the well-worn fantasy of being rid of John for good. It'd be easy. As easy as it was to shove that moron Tommy Evans off the bleachers or send Coach Newsom tumbling down the stairs. The very thought of it calms him.

Dean’s grip on his forearm tightens. He gives Dean’s neck a squeeze. Sam can’t hear what his brother is thinking, but he gets his meaning anyway: _don’t_.

Patience, he reminds himself, he just has to be patient.

He jumps down off Dean’s back, swallows his irritation and plasters his most innocent smile on his face.

"I guess.” Sam offers, as he takes hold of John’s hand.

Dean rolls his eyes.

John looks down at their joined hands then to Sam’s face. John looks a little surprised, but also pleased.

“Come on.” Sam says, tugging on John’s hand. “We’re starving.”

 John feigns exasperation, but there's a small smile on his lips that gives him away.

 

Too easy.

 

~~~

Sam can’t think.  John's vicious chastisement rings in his ears; drowns out all other thought.  Sam stews over every word; chokes on the injustice of it all. Sam’s not at fault, and neither is Dean. The only person at fault is John. This whole clusterfuck they call their lives? Yeah. It all lays squarely on John’s shoulders.  All his bullshit talks about family and watching each other’s back. Where was he? Who the fuck is he to call them out? It had been weeks! The money he’d left was long gone. What the hell else were they supposed to do? They had to take care of each other.

 

They didn’t even do anything. No matter what it looked like- and Sam knows exactly what John thinks they were doing, which he thinks makes John just as sick as the stupid bastards who proposition them all the time- they never touched the guy and the guy never stood a chance of touching them.

 

Sam gasps for air; trying hard to calm himself. He feels overheated and unbound. Dean's is the only thing keeping him tethered. One day, Sam thinks, he’ll beat John bloody for making them feel abandoned and worthless and weak.

“So fucking selfish!” Sam hisses. The dresser in their tiny bedroom rattles urgently, the books stacked on top tip over and slip onto the floor.

The bed feels even smaller than it is. There isn't enough space, not enough air. His skin feels stretched tight like an overblown balloon. His head aches. His lungs burn.

“Easy, tiger. You gotta breathe.” Dean presses his hand to Sam’s heart. “Breathe.”

Sam mimics Dean’s deep breaths, allowing himself to be calmed by the rubbing motion of Dean’s thumb on his chest until he is finally able to reign himself in.

“I can’t do this anymore, De." San insists once he regains control over himself.

“It’ll be okay." Dean promises. It’s the same sad promise Sam’s been hearing all his life. The only promise Dean’s ever made that he hasn’t been able to keep.

"He's wrong, Dean. He's just fucking wrong."

Dean’s body tenses beside him.

“Yeah, he is. But it doesn’t change a goddamn thing, does it?” Dean says tightly, then rolls onto his back. Sam follows, laying on his side, pressing himself into his brother. It’s awkward; The bed not nearly big enough, now that they’re so close in height. Sam would never admit it, but he kind of hates it.

 

Sam squirms, pushing at Dean until they fit just right. He lets Dean’s anger ease for a bit, before he whispers, “We could leave. You’re twenty.”

“Yeah, but you’re still a minor.” Dean dips his fingers into Sam’s hair.

“If he wasn’t here, my age wouldn’t matter.” Sam blurts out without thinking.

 

It’s the wrong thing to say, he knows it is. The truth is that no matter how much Dean resents John these days, he’s not ready to treat John like the obstacle he is. Some part of Dean still cares about John too much for that.

 “ _Sam_ ,” The tone of Dean’s voice is a warning. _Leave it._

The fight flushes right out of him, resigned to the fact he can’t push Dean just now. Sam presses a kiss to Dean’s lips. It’s an apology, an olive branch, but Dean turns his face away. Undeterred, Sam follows, pressing his lips to Dean’s more persistently, until Dean’s lips part, his tongue touching Sam’s bottom lip briefly.

“I’m sorry, Dean.” Sam whispers. And he is, not about his feelings for John, but about putting Dean in the middle. Sam takes Dean’s amulet between his fingers, lets the horns cut into his palm.

“You’re not sorry. Not really.” Dean turns to his side, turning his back on Sam, tugging the amulet out of Sam’s hand as he goes. Dean sounds exhausted and resigned and suddenly there’s nothing more important than mollifying his brother.

“You could make him forget.” Sam offers as recompense for his earlier bluntness. He mimics Dean’s position, curling around Dean’s back. He rests his forehead between Dean’s shoulder blades.

Dean tenses under him. “I told you. Not on Dad.”

 

Sam will never understand. What are their abilities good for, if not for helping them get what they want? There’s nothing Sam wants more than to be free. (He knows Dean wants that too, even if he can’t admit it to himself just yet.)  Sam doesn’t care about revenge or about saving people. Neither is his responsibility. He wants his freedom and his brother and the first step to getting both for good is being free of John. Sam shakes his head, his forehead sweaty against Dean’s back. Sam and John can’t co-exist. As long as John is around Sam can’t be who he wants, can’t take what he wants and god knows, Sam **wants**.

They lay together, their bodies tight with tension. The silence seemingly impenetrable. Sam’s body feels like a live wire. He can’t lose his brother. Not to their fucking father, not to anyone. Sam’s been patient, so very patient. He’d do anything for his brother, but he has to admit, he’s not sure how much longer he can wait for Dean to see things his way.

Sensing his distress, Dean reaches back, takes Sam’s arm by the wrist and wraps it around himself.

“It’s only two more years, Sam.” Dean gives his hand a squeeze. A wave of warmth floods Sam as Dean turns his head to look at Sam over his shoulder.  “Two years, Sam. That’s nothing.”

~~~

Sam greets Bobby at the door, trading a beer for the stack of mail Bobby is shoving at him.

“A little eager there aren’t you, son?” Bobby chuckles as he walks off into the living room.

 

It’s the end of the school year, a little over two months left till graduation and he _is_ eager. Not in the way Bobby thinks, just eager to be done with school and more importantly with John. He’s nearly 18 and once he is, he and Dean will be free to do whatever they choose to without the threat of their father hanging over them. Not legally anyway.  Sam’s not naive enough to think prying Dean from his father’s clutches will be easy.

Sam flips through the mail, sorting it mindlessly. It’s mostly junk mail sprinkled with a few bills and one letter with Stanford listed as the return address.

It’s not what he thought it would be. He envisioned a large, thick envelope shoved full of the things a person might need to start a new life, but the envelope is thin. It contains a short letter informing him of his acceptance and promising him the financial means to make his academic dreams come true. He reads the letter all the way through twice, unable to contain his face splitting, self-satisfied grin.

 

They’d been at Bobby’s long enough for Sam to get on the school counselor’s radar. He’d been dodging her for months. It’s not that he didn’t value higher education; it’s just that he didn’t believe he’d learn what he truly needed to know in college.  He couldn’t evade her forever though and eventually he was forced to meet with her.

Listening to her drone on about his potential, hint about what she thought she knew about their “unfortunate family situation”, all with barely concealed condescension, was painful. Fifteen minutes into their meeting, he even considered using her as test subject. His skills had burgeoned from being a little more than a blunt instrument into a fine-tuned scalpel. It would be nothing to shred a blood vessel in her brain or paralyze the muscles of her heart. He decided against it, in the end, it hardly seemed worth the trouble.

So, he’d listened when she promised it was not too late to apply, that with his grades and test scores, he could go anywhere in the country. And really, that’s what convinced him to apply, to accept her offer of assistance in completing applications and figuring out his financial aid options. College would, he came to accept, be an excellent plan B, with the added bonus of being the perfect fuck you to his father. He’d submitted his applications and proceeded to forget all about it.

 

He doesn’t think he’ll need plan B now. He and Dean have been on their own for months, their father nothing more than a voice over the phone since January. They haven’t hunted in weeks. The extent of their involvement with the supernatural has been providing research for Bobby and doing research on their gifts. These days, Dean mentions meeting up with their father less and less. When Dean does mention it, there is more aggravation and less yearning in it. Sam knows it’s going to take time to fully get Dean out from under his father’s thumb, but that’s okay. If Sam has learned anything over the past 18 years, it’s patience.

He scans the letter one more time. Shakes his head. What had he been thinking? Then tosses it back onto the pile of mail.

 

By the time Dean gets back, Sam has forgotten all about the letter. He’s a quarter of the way into a fifth of stolen Jack Daniels. (He’s always careful. Sioux Falls is a small town and they’ve lived with Bobby on enough occasions and for long enough, that people-including the town Sheriff- know exactly who they are.)  He’s finally managed to get comfortable on Bobby’s lumpy couch and is floating in the elusive, soothing state between sobriety and drunkenness. He feels amazing, hopeful for the first time in a long time. Sam can almost taste freedom.

 

Dean dumps his bag by the door. The heavy thud of the bag followed by two lighter ones as he kicks off his boots then the rustle of Dean shedding his jacket signal his arrival.

“Hey, big brother.” Sam titters.

“You’re in a good mood,” Dean tells Sam from the doorway.

“Yup.”

Sam takes another sip from the bottle for good measures. He grabs the remote from where he’d dropped it and begins channel surfing. Thirteen channels and still nothing’s on. Sam chuckles at his own joke.

“You drunk?” Dean asks as he leans over the back of the couch, snatching the bottle out of Sam’s hand.

Sam twists around and snatches it back. “Get your own. I picked up a six pack for you. It’s in the fridge.”

Dean shoves Sam’s head forward with a weird combination push-hair ruffle motion then stomps off into the kitchen.

 

“Old lady Rainer got her car stuck in the ditch off 40 again. You shoot me before I get too old to dri…”

The pain slams into him, a burning that steals his breath and leaves him clutching at his chest. He remembers, then, that he’s left the letter on the table.

Sam falls off the couch as he scrambles onto his feet and rushes into the kitchen where Dean is standing statue like, the letter in his hand. Dean’s emotions, betrayal and heartache wrapped in a blistering anger, are making Sam’s head spin.

Sam slams into Dean, throwing his arms around him. “It’s not what you think. I swear. It’s okay.”

Dean ducks out of his hold, spins and shoves Sam hard into the counter. “You are a fucking liar!”

Dean lunges at Sam before he can even gather himself. He grabs Sam by the lapels of his over shirt.

“What? You were just going to leave?! Never say a fucking word to me?!”

Sam has never felt his brother so out of control. The pain is all encompassing. Dean shakes him. “Answer me, you shit!”

And Sam wants to. He wants to answer, but he can’t think under the weight of Dean’s rage. He can’t even focus enough to use his own powers against Dean.

“I was never going. Never going.” He gasps. He throws his arms around Dean’s neck, pressing his forehead to his brother’s. Dean resists; attempts to push Sam off.

“Dean! Just look!”

 

A lifetime and he’s still not used to it. Not used to the feeling, like fingers sifting through his brain, or the schizophrenic slideshow of memories moving so fast it makes him nauseous. It’s all a blur. He has no idea how Dean can gather any meaning out of it.

Dean squeezes his neck tightly then shoves him off with a disgruntled huff. The rage simmers down to a throbbing hurt.

“Boys?” Bobby materializes just outside the kitchen. “Everything okay in here?”

Dean backs away from Sam, bumping into the kitchen table. He looks lost and unsure. Sam knows he’s made a terrible mistake. He’s made Dean doubt him, the only person Dean’s ever had any faith in. He’s sure something’s been irrevocably broken between them.  Dean rights himself, slipping easily into feigned indifference. The ever present pulse of “Dean” goes flat.

“Yeah. It’s fine.”

Sam wants to reach out, grab onto Dean, make things right, but he knows better than to try to reach Dean now.  Sam pushes up off of the ground, straightens his clothes and steps up next to his brother.

“We’re all good, Uncle Bobby.”

Dean shoves past Sam then past Bobby. The two of them stand mutely in the kitchen, listening to Dean grab his coat then slams the door as he stomps out of the house.

 

By the time Dean returns, it’s nearly daylight. Dean pushes their bedroom door open quietly, but gives up any effort to sneak into the room when he notices Sam is awake. Dean stands in the doorway, looking exhausted and grim and Sam could care less. He burned through his remorse hours ago. He has no desire to be conciliatory. He’s livid. Dean had no right to leave him. No right to be angry. Sam was never going. Dean knows that. Saw it. He saw fucking everything. It was just a misunderstanding; Dean should have understood.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Sam hisses, mentally grabbing the front of Dean’s shirt and yanking him forward. Dean is pulled across the room, his feet scrambling for purchase. It’s comical, as if Dean were being dragged towards the bed by an invisible string. Sam dumps him, unceremoniously, on the foot of the bed. Dean plops onto the mattress face first.

“Jesus, Sam.” Dean complains as he sits up. He straightens his shirt and tries to regain his composure.

“Don’t.” Sam presses his power against Dean’s throat.

“Cut it out.” Dean wheezes.

Sam loosens his hold, but shoves Dean hard, sending him tumbling off the bed and onto the floor.

“Goddamn it, Sam!” He grits out. Sam feels the heat of Dean’s annoyance flush through him. “That’s enough.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do!” Sam scrambles off the bed, rushes to where Dean stands. He bumps his chest into Dean’s. Sam looks down at Dean who stares back defiantly. “You saw everything. You saw and still stormed out of here without a word.” 

Dean shoves Sam back. “Yeah, I saw. You must think I’m so fucking stupid. You’ve just been waiting to go. This whole time-maybe not to Stanford-but definitely the fuck away from here.”

 

Rage bubbles in Sam’s gut. He takes a deep breath, knowing if he doesn’t reign it in, it’ll explode in a burst of power he won’t be able to control. He closes his eyes, focusing on nothing but tamping the need to lash out at Dean down. The power is a black mass swirling inside him. He imagines shoving it down, down, but it doesn’t want to be contained. It wants what it always wants-to destroy, to raze everything. Sam whimpers; the effort of containing it, making pain pierce his skull. Sam’s nose runs; he knows it’s blood.

Suddenly, Sam feels Dean’s hand on his chest, the heat of him as Dean steps into Sam’s personal space, the scratch of Dean’s stubble against his cheek, Dean’s warm breath in his ear.

“‘S okay. It’s okay.”

Sam presses his face against Dean’s and wraps his arms around his brother. The power flares and sputters, until it’s nothing but a thrum in the back of Sam’s mind. They hold each other in silence until Sam is confident he can remain calm.

He pulls out of Dean’s arms. Dean cups his face; wipes away the blood on Sam’s upper lip with his thumb. Dean brushes his thumb against Sam’s lips.

“You okay, now?”

Sam nods, dips down and kisses Dean lightly.  His blood is a pink sheen on Dean’s lips.

“You really _are_ fucking stupid, if you thought I’d ever leave you.” He whispers.

 

Dean shakes his head and is just about to speak, when they hear someone stomping up the stairs. Like an apparition, John Winchester materializes in the doorway. His face twisted in disappointment and at seeing them standing so closely together, disgust.

“You want to explain this, son?” John spits, as he looks from Dean to Sam then to Dean again. Dean’s face flushes a deep pink. He’s looking everywhere, but at their father. John’s eyes go wide as he jumps to his own conclusion about what he’s seeing. John shakes with barely controlled rage, as he tosses the acceptance letter towards them.  “Is that why, Sam?” He asks, tipping his chin up as if to point at Dean. “Is it?!”

Dean’s head jerks up. To Sam it looks as if his father’s words have clarified for Dean, something Dean himself had been trying for a long time to puzzle out.  Outrage wells up in Sam’s gut as he realizes just what his father is implying.

"You, sick son of a bitch,” John shouts, launching himself at Dean. Dean shoves Sam back as John grabs for Dean, who doesn’t even bother fighting back. He punches Dean across the cheek. The sick crack of bone fills the room. Dean loses his balance and falls to his knees. He shakes his head, as if trying to clear it.

In that instant, whatever salve Dean had managed to smother on Sam’s ragged emotions burns away. John doesn’t get to pretend he gives a shit about Sam. He doesn’t get to pretend he’s ever been any kind of father to them and he doesn’t get to touch Dean. Dean is his. Sam finds he has no patience left for pretense.

“Don’t you fucking touch him!” He shouts. The bedroom window shatters; John gasps in shock. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Dean clamber to his feet. Dean’s wobbly, but manages to stand on his own.

 

Several things happen at once. In those moments, time comes to near standstill. Suddenly, it’s as if Sam is watching everything transpire from somewhere outside himself.

Bobby appears in the doorway, just in time to watch Sam propel John across the room and throw him into their dresser. John howls in pain, as his shoulder makes contact. Sam feels a small measure of satisfaction, but it’s short lived. From the doorway, Sam hears the cock of a shotgun. Sam turns his attention away from John to find Bobby aiming the shotgun, Sam is sure was meant to be used on John if needed, right at him.  Sam watches him, transfixed by the roller coaster of emotions on Bobby’s face. The shotgun shakes in his hands, but Bobby doesn’t hesitate. He pulls the trigger at the exact same moment Dean rushes toward the doorway. Dean’s agonized scream is a distant muted thing that barely registers in Sam’s consciousness. He’s too focused on the pellets flying through the air toward them, toward Dean, who has thrown himself in front of Sam.

Another terrified, “NO!” fills the room. Absently, Sam realizes he’s the one screaming. For a second, Sam genuinely hates his brother. How could Dean possibly believe Sam would be okay with letting Dean sacrifice himself? He shoves Dean aside. Dean smacks with hard thud right into John who had finally managed to get back on his feet. Everything in the room is rattling under the pressure of Sam’s rage.

 

Time speeds up, resumes it normal pace.

 

The pellets slam into Sam’s chest and abdomen. He stumbles back under the force of impact. Pain shoots through him. Sam recognizes this pain instantly. Rock salt. It stings, aches like a hard blow, but is not even close to the pain of being shot with actual shot.  Sam doesn’t have time to recuperate. Bobby is rushing into the room, bellowing an exorcism at him. John has Dean pinned and is using Dean for his own personal punching bag. Dean isn’t bothering to fight back.

Sam takes it all in. He snaps. “ENOUGH!”

Everything stops. John’s fist is frozen mid-blow. Dean, who wasn’t moving to begin with, lays even more still. His right eye is swollen shut. The other is fixed resolutely on Sam. Tears are tracking down his face. Bobby stands immobile in the middle of the room. His eyes are wide with shock and no small amount of fear. Sam almost feels bad about it.

 

Sam sits on the foot of their bed. He just needs a minute to work through his options. He’s waited long enough, longer than he ever should have. He needs to make his move now.

“Dean.”

Dean blinks at him.

“Do you understand now?”

“Sammy, don’t.” Dean croaks. John’s hand is wrapped tightly across his throat, constricting his airway.

“Look at him. He’s killing you. You’re letting him. He’s a toxin, a cancer. Look at what he’s done to you. Why can’t you see it? Why does he matter? Does he matter more than I do, Dean?”

Dean gasps.

“What am I supposed to think? When you’d rather let him kill you than to be with me.”

“Protecting you.” he rasps.

“From who?” Sam huffs. “He’s the only person I ever needed to be protected from. Not you, Dean. Why do you let him get in your head? You’re so much stronger than he’ll ever be. We are stronger than all of them.”

Dean whimpers. “Sammy, don’t.”

“I’m done waiting. I need you to choose, once and for all.”

“No, please Sam. No.”

 Sam closes his eyes. Tips his head back. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

~~~

Sam stands at the window of his apartment and looks down at his brother, leaning casually against the Impala. His forearms rest on the roof of the car. He’s staring right up at Sam, a barely contained smirk on his lips. In the light of the street lamp, he looks ethereal, unreal in his casual cool, in his beauty. There’s nothing in his smile of the brother who had pushed him away, closed himself off to Sam, insisted that Sam take his opportunity and run right out of his life. The brother who had packed his bags for him and said,“Go.”

There is nothing to indicate in that wide grin that he’d suffered the loss of his little brother the way Sam had suffered the loss of him.  Two years, Sam thinks bitterly, not one word in two years. It’s a long time to be ostracized. Sam knew Dean wouldn’t understand why he had to get rid of John, not at first maybe. But he’d been sure Dean would come around. He’d agreed to leave only because he was certain Dean would only be days behind him. Sam never imagined it would take Dean two years to find his way back to him.  It’s a long time to be punished for something they both knew was going to happen eventually.

 

Now Dean is here, acting as if those two years had never happened.

 _I’m not coming down, you motherfucker._ Sam thinks and immediately Dean is there in his head.

_Yes. You are._

Sam shoves back from the window, startled and confused.

_Didn’t know I could do that, did you? I’ve learned a lot in two years._

Sam moves back to the window. His brother laughs. It’s disconcerting watching him do so, while having the echo of it in his head.

_Get out of my head, you fucking jerk._

For emphasis, Sam makes the street lamp over Dean crackle.

_Show off._

For long minutes, there is nothing but silence between them. He senses Dean, his power. It fills every empty place in Sam’s soul.

_Come on, Sammy._

The tenderness in Dean’s voice makes Sam ache. Sam can’t pretend this isn’t what he’s been wishing for every day since Dean sent him away _.  I thought you’d never forgive me._

Dean’s smile fades a little; he shrugs. _I’m sorry it took me so long to come. But I get it now, Sam. Dad wasn’t ever going to accept us._

_What about Bobby?_

Dean pushes away from the Impala, closing the door and moving to sit on the hood.

 _I don’t want to talk about that._ Dean’s voice is choked with emotion.

 

Sam doesn’t press him. He has all the time in the world to figure it out.

 

“Sam?” Jessica steps out of the shadows. Sam feels the connection with Dean fade.

She yawns and scratches the back of her head. He looks at her, even in her rumpled state she’s beautiful. For a split second, he feels something he’s sure people would call regret. It doesn’t last and doesn’t have any impact on what he’s about to do. It’s not like she even knows who he really is and though she claims to love him, love isn’t something he was ever going to be able to give her. His leaving will hurt her, but there isn’t anything he can do about that. She’ll be better off without him in the long run. One day, she’ll realize it.

“Hey. Sorry I woke you.” He kisses her cheek then steps past her to the hall closet.

Inside the closet, shoved to the back on the highest shelf, is his duffel bag. The bag Dean packed for him the night he left for Stanford. The bag Sam never stopped packing and repacking so it would always be ready when Dean came for him. Sam might have doubted a lot of things, but he never doubted that.

“Sam, what are you doing? It’s three in the morning.”

He hauls the bag down and hooks it onto his shoulder. “Sorry. I gotta go.”

“Go? What are talking about?” Sleepy confusion blossoms into anger.

“My brother’s here.”

“Brother? You have a brother?!” Her face is pale with shock. “Sam, I don’t understand. What the fuck?”

Sam doesn’t have time for this.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to. Look, I’m sorry, but I need to go, now."

“What? Sam!” She grabs his forearm."

 

Sam has been waiting two, long years to be back in his brother’s good graces. He’s paid for killing John when Dean was clearly not ready to let him go. He has no patience left to deal with her or her questions. Right now, she is the one thing keeping him from Dean. She has no idea how much danger that puts her in.

With nothing more than a thought, Sam shoves her away and into their loveseat. She screams, but he quickly cuts off her air. She grabs at her throat, her eyes bulging with pain and fear. For a second, she reminds him off the cat he’d worked so hard to befriend all those years ago. She shares the same shocked, panicked expression it had. He eases his grip on her throat, enough to allow her to breathe. He doesn’t want to kill her; he just wants her out of the way. Why does everyone have to make everything so difficult?

 

As he heads to the kitchen to grab the empty ice cream carton where they keep their Spring Break money, he hears the front door click open.

“What’s the hold up, Sam?” Dean asks as he lets himself into the apartment. Sam emerges from the kitchen to find Dean staring at a mute and terrified Jess.

“She’s way out of your league, Sam.” Dean means to tease, but Sam knows better. He can feel the angry burn of Dean’s jealousy.

“Just something to pass the time, big brother.” Sam laughs, rushing to Dean and pulling him in a tight hug. Sam presses his forehead to Dean’s, letting Dean’s happiness, his relief wash over him.

“Missed you,” Dean tells him, before pulling back enough to kiss Sam. It’s gentle and chaste and immediately ignites longing and remorse and greed in Sam. Sam would, if he could, devour Dean whole.

On the loveseat, Jess grunts what Sam imagines would be a horrified scream.

 “What are you going to do about her?” Dean asks.

 

Sam hands Dean his duffel; he can tell Dean recognizes it. It pleases Sam to no end. Dean beams a smile at him and Sam returns it.

Sam makes short work of dealing with Jess. He chokes her until she passes out. It takes time he doesn’t really want to waste on her, but he needs her alive. For a second, he considers moving her to the bedroom, but she’s lost bowel control in the process, so opts for leaving her on the couch.

“Didn’t know you were so delicate, Sammy.” Dean jokes.

“Shut up.” Warmth blooms across Sam’s cheeks, god he’d missed Dean.

Sam moves quickly, rearranging the scented candles that litter their apartment for maximum efficiency, ensuring at least two are in dangerously close proximity to the curtains in their living room.

“You done, Martha Stewart?” Dean shifts the bag from one shoulder to another.

“Yeah.” Sam raises his arm, spreads his right hand and concentrates his power. The candles light simultaneously. Their flames bursting to life, flaring higher and burning stronger than they ever would under normal circumstances.

Dean quirks an eyebrow. “Impressive.”

“I’ve learned a lot in two years too.” Sam laughs, throws his arm across Dean’s shoulders. “Now come. Let’s get out of here. We got work to do.”

 

 

 


End file.
